


Teach Me

by Bofur1



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, I didn't mean for so much angst, Moria | Khazad-dûm, Multi, Past Character Death, Storytelling, Toys, Ur Family Feels, Wood carving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-17
Updated: 2014-01-17
Packaged: 2018-01-09 00:41:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1139415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bofur1/pseuds/Bofur1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo asks Bombur why his family makes toys if they are really miners. Bombur sits him down with a bowl of soup and begins, "It all started a long time ago with Bifur and his father..."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Teach Me

_Grrr...._

Bilbo tensed when he heard the growl, only to realize with a quiet sigh that it was his own stomach. He rose to his feet, hoping that the Dwarves had saved a bit of the soup for him. Gingerly stepping over a few Dwarves who had already fallen asleep, Bilbo made his way toward Bombur and his pot.

All of a sudden Bilbo stumbled over the handle of Dwalin’s axe Keeper. Shouting, he flailed and ended up lying in the lap of Bifur, who lurched and then howled something in a tone of utter anger and despair.

“Oh, no!” Bofur yelped, scooping Bilbo out of his cousin’s lap and shoving him onto his feet. He knelt in front of Bifur, bending his head over something Bifur cradled delicately in his hands. “Is it a’right, d’ye think?”

Bifur and Bofur both examined whatever ‘it’ was and breathed simultaneous sighs of relief.

“What did I do?” Bilbo asked in alarm.

“Fortunately, nothin’,” Bofur replied, settling back into his place by Bifur’s side. “We thought fer a moment that ye had smashed th’ gears on his toy, but it turned out t’ be a’right.”

Bilbo was too embarrassed to ask the question that came to his lips. Therefore he scurried toward the dinner pot, mumbling in confusion, “Bifur plays with toys?”

“No,” Bombur corrected, having overheard Bilbo’s words as he approached. “He makes them. He, Bofur, and I all do.”

“I thought you said you were miners,” Bilbo said, perplexed.

“We are,” Bombur agreed as he ladled some of the last remnants of soup into Bilbo’s bowl. “But we’re toymakers too.”

Bilbo was curious. “Why?”

With a mirthless laugh, Bombur shook his head. “It’s a...a long story.”

Shrugging, Bilbo settled himself onto a rock. “I haven’t got anything else to do,” he told Bombur eagerly. He wanted to hear the story; it would give him a chance to get to know what he considered to be one of the most curious families in the Company.

After a moment’s hesitation, Bombur sank down too. “It all started a long time ago with Bifur and his father. Bifur lived in Khazad-dûm, what the Elves call Moria. He was the youngest of his family, only a child, when his life changed. This is what I’ve heard of it...”

~+~

A muffled noise from the front of the family suite brought Bifur to alert. Long, soft black bangs settled over his innocent brown eyes as he glanced toward the door.

“Kilfur?” he called hopefully. His oldest brother had been visiting frequently these past few weeks to raid Ama and Adad’s kitchen. When Ama had confronted him about it, Kilfur shrugged sheepishly.

“I don’t know how to cook, so I come over. It’s the least I can do for—”

“Yourself?” Béfalei suggested the next word crustily.

“For the little one,” Kilfur sighed exasperatedly. “What, you think he doesn’t like it when I come over?”

Bifur had burst into the kitchen, squealing, “I do, I do!” With enthusiasm he tackled Kilfur’s leg and beamed up at their mother.

Therefore a compromise had been reached and Kilfur came over every day to visit Bifur—and for cooking lessons. It was about time for the daily lesson, Bifur thought excitedly as he pocketed the favorite of his wooden soldiers and ran to the door.

“Kilfur, Kilfur, Kilfur,” he hummed happily as he stood on tiptoe and wrapped his little hands around the door-handle. Straining a bit, Bifur got the door to move. The greeting he had on his lips fell away when he saw the stunned expression on Kilfur’s face.

Bifur was perplexed. “What’s—”

Kilfur collapsed to the ground before Bifur could finish his question. Standing immediately behind Kilfur was the most terrifying creature Bifur had ever seen. It let out a hideous screech that ended with the land of a throwing-axe.

“Run, Bifur! _Run!_ ” Béfalei howled above an approaching din as she yanked a boar spear from hooks in the wall.

The obedient son in Bifur bound itself to his fear, making a knot that set his feet in motion. He fled through the halls he’d known since birth, the war-cries of his mother echoing from behind him. He glanced back and suddenly slammed into someone. He fell flat on his back from the impact, eyes wide with terror.

The Orc howled and lifted a cruel rapier in the air, ready to bring it down on the Dwarfling. With a roar of her own, Béfalei hurled herself forward, her boar spear catching the Orc in the throat just as his rapier caught hers.

“Ama!” Bifur screamed as Béfalei sagged, her limbs tangling with the filthy black creature’s as they fell to the ground before him. “Ama, Ama,” he sobbed out as he buried his fingers in her honey-colored curls.

Then Bifur and the boar spear were pulled up and away. Bifur hung himself over the shoulder of his sister Béfanell and bawled, hands still stretched for his mother.

He was outside in the burning sunlight before long. Bifur wailed when he found himself suddenly dumped off his sister’s shoulder and onto the ground. Béfanell screamed cold murder as she wielded her mother’s weapon and Bifur watched as another of his family members died. Leaping forward, he lugged the boar spear out of Béfanell’s still hands and huddled with it behind a rock, squeezing his eyes closed against the horror.

When he woke again, Bifur found his father sitting by his side in a medical tent. A small lump of wood and a knife were in Hifur’s hands.

“What are you doing?” Bifur asked, his sluggishness fending off the memories long enough for him to be interested.

Hifur looked up with tears in his eyes. “I’m making you a toy to replace your other ones.” He showed the crudely-carved figure to his son. It was a Dwarf woman, proud and brave, with long curly hair.

Bifur sat up slowly and reached out. Hifur handed it to him, swallowing hard. Bifur studied the Dwarf woman closely and then tucked it in his pocket with his wooden soldier.

“Teach me.”

~+~

“Teach me,” Dwana requested eagerly, holding out a hand for her husband’s carving knife. “I want to make a Dwarf man!”

Bifur smiled indulgently and handed it to her, but as soon as she had her fingers around it he shook his head. “No, no, no. It’s not a dagger! Think of it like...a butter knife.” Rising to his feet, Bifur stood behind her so he could position her hand. “Like this, see? Now take the wood and...”

“Butter it?” Dwana giggled. Bifur nodded pleased agreement and watched Dwana make her first cut.

“Not too deep,” Bifur warned hastily, stopping her. “If you’re making a man, he’d best not have hips.”

Dwana reached over her shoulder to tap Bifur’s waist with the flat edge of the knife, humming slyly. “I know _you_ have hips.”

Bifur couldn’t stop his cheeks from turning pink. “Yes, everyone does,” he agreed bashfully, adding with a playful note, “but only women have rounded ones.” So saying he leaned forward, strumming his fingers down Dwana’s ribcage and then against the outside of her thigh.

“Not out here in the park, please,” she laughed, turning her head to kiss him deeply.

“Are you going to make that Dwarf or what?” he muttered, returning the kiss.

“You’re the one distracting me,” Dwana protested, “not that I mind. C’mon, help me with this next part.”

The next few hours they spent carving, with several breaks in-between to flirt and kiss affectionately, and when finished Bifur found himself holding up a passable Dwarf man.

“Excellent for a beginner!” he enthused, rewarding his wife with a bump of the foreheads.

“Well, I had your help,” she reminded him. “We make a good team.” Leaning into Bifur’s side, she asked, “When did you start making toys? It was before we were married, wasn’t it?”

Bifur’s smile faded. “It was...after Moria was taken. My father taught me when I was very little. When he died...well, it was sort of a way to help me cope.”

Dwana slipped an arm around his neck. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

Bifur nodded somberly. “Still. That’s in the past, and now I’ve got you.” Forcing his long-ago grief to the back of his mind, Bifur smiled at Dwana. “I love you.”

Dwana smiled ruefully back. “I love you too.” They didn’t notice the shadows creeping upon them until it was too late.

A horror-filled month after Dwana’s abduction, Bifur found her body waiting for him on that same bench in the park. He wailed in the anguish only a widower could know. One hand tore violently at his hair and beard and the other lay at Dwana’s midsection, where their unborn child would sleep forever.

Bifur took her body home, laid her on their bed and wept bitterly over her for days, his hands pressed against hers. Then he sat up, utterly exhausted and numb with grief. He knew what needed to be done, what Dwana would have wanted him to do. He took a piece of wood and a knife in his shaking hands, and began the coping process.

~+~

“What’re ye doin’, cousin Bifur?” Bofur asked curiously, standing on top of Bifur’s large boot and peering at the wood in Bifur’s hands.

“I’m carving,” Bifur replied absently, brushing wood shavings off the horse he was fashioning.

“Will ye teach me?” Bofur asked, lifting himself up and down on Bifur’s boot.

Bifur’s head jerked up and there in his eyes was a strange dismay that Bofur had never seen before.

“T-Teach you?” he repeated, his voice shaky.

Bofur nodded affirmation and Bifur swallowed hard, the shake of his head settling his hair around his pale face.

“I’m sorry, Bofur, but...not right now.”

Bofur shrugged hesitantly. “A’right.” Then he was off again. Bifur watched his little cousin go with blurring gaze and then bowed his head. After a few moments a heavy hand fell on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry if he reminded you, Bifur,” Bromur said gravely. “I’ll have a talk with him if you want.”

Bifur took a shuddering breath and raised his head to look at his uncle. “No, don’t. He doesn’t need to know what happened until he’s older. Let him just...stay in ignorance of death for a little while longer.”

Unfortunately, the next time Bifur saw his little cousins was at Bromur’s funeral. The kindly, ginger-haired father of Bofur and Bombur had been crushed in a mine collapse, and the ignorance of death that Bifur had wished for his cousins would never come again. It was the shirt of Bifur himself that Bofur soaked with tears. It was Bifur who carefully answered little Bombur’s questions of “Where’s Adad? When’s he coming home?”

It was Bifur who took them in after their mother Joniver became ill and was lost to the world also only two months later. After the burial of their mother, Bofur and Bombur sat at Bifur’s dining room table. Tears streamed down their faces, but they were completely silent.

Bifur swallowed hard as he approached and sat across from them. “Bofur. Bombur.” They looked at him with such hopelessness and brokenness in their eyes that Bifur almost choked audibly on his next words. “Let me teach you...how to make toys.”

Bofur and Bombur grew in both age and in skill, helping Bifur craft things to trade for food. Times were hard, but whenever they were feeling down they always fell back to the toys and Bifur’s words reminding them to treat it like buttering bread.

When there came a time that Bifur was unable to say those words because of an Orc and his axe, Bofur was the one who brought out the wood. Settling themselves down firmly at the table, he and Bombur carved to stretch their fingers and then began re-learning iglishmêk.

~+~

“That’s why we make toys,” Bombur concluded, his voice soft.

Bilbo sniffed and made an inconspicuous swipe at his eyes. “That...that’s heartbreaking,” he mumbled. “If that had been me, I probably would have just killed myself.”

Bombur startled. “But then you wouldn’t be here to hear the story and eat my—”

“Bombur, where has all the soup gone?!” Thorin demanded angrily, gesturing to the pot.

Bombur and Bilbo peered into the pot, then at each other, and then at their two bowls. During the story, they suddenly realized, they had been absently spooning up refills for each other. Gulping at the King’s stormy expression, Bombur laughed sheepishly.

“I guess I’d better make another pot.”

Bilbo spoke up. “And then, ah, afterward...will you teach me to carve?”

Bifur and Bofur looked up at the Halfling in surprise upon overhearing this. Bombur, however, simply patted Bilbo’s shoulder and smiled.

“Of course.” While stoking the fire, Bombur began, “The first thing you need to do, even before finding a good piece of wood and a knife, is that you need get in a mindset. You’re going to think of the wood like bread that you need to butter.”

 


End file.
